


In the Pain, There is Healing

by abigail89



Category: Star Trek 2009
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-28
Updated: 2010-04-28
Packaged: 2017-10-09 05:25:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/83509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abigail89/pseuds/abigail89
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After McCoy is hurt on an away mission, Jim has a ritual he must perform in order to heal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Pain, There is Healing

**Author's Note:**

> Crying and schmoopiness, a little food play, and of course, scars from injuries. With many thanks to thalialunacy and aome for the magnificent beta read and terrific suggestions. All remaining mistakes are mine alone. The title is from the song "Broken" by Lifehouse.
> 
> Written for the km_anthology on LJ, a catalogue of kinks and other reasons to write smut. My kink was scar fetish.

"Fuck, Jim. Fuck!"

"Nu-uh," Jim hums around McCoy's dick. He lets it go with a pop and a spring. "Not yet. I'm just getting started." Then Jim swallows his cock again, his nose buried in McCoy's dark pubic hair.

McCoy's eyes roll into the back of his brain, his body alive with arousal. "You're gonna fuckin' kill me one of these days."

Jim's head bobs up and down once, then he freezes. McCoy groans. "Fuck, that was the wrong thing to say," McCoy says, reaching for him. "I'm sorry, Jim. I did _not_ mean that. It was--"

He kisses the tip of McCoy's dark red cock, and slides his way up to reach McCoy's face. His blue eyes, just seconds before dancing with mirth and love, are now haunted, sad.

McCoy could kick himself. "Jim, I--" he says again, his hands framing Jim's face.

Jim buries his nose in his partner's neck. "It's--I'm so sorry, Bones. I'm sorry." The words are muffled by skin and muscle and--

Jim lifts his head; his eyes and bright and filling with tears. He kisses him with such sweet intensity that McCoy thinks his heart will burst. "I'm all right. It happens," McCoy says, cradling Jim's head and rubbing away the tears. "It _has_ happened, many times. You get hurt, I get hurt. Crew members get hurt. Shit, crew _die_, and that hurts all of us so bad." He kisses Jim as the tears swell and spill down his cheeks.

"It's not supposed to happen, but it does," McCoy continues. "That's why you have the best goddamn medical staff in the galaxy aboard your ship." He smiles wryly, then drops small, comforting kisses onto Jim's cheeks and nose and lips, trying to will away the tears. But it only works so much.

McCoy hates seeing his partner like this, but it's what Jim _does_ after every away mission that ends in injuries and death. It's like he has to purge the grief and the rage and the self-blame from his soul, offer it up to the forces of the universe, the energy that keeps the planets and stars in their courses. He has to offer an apology to the Great Spirit that he's somehow the reason why the sentient beings who are his to protect and defend have been hurt or killed in the line of duty.

And McCoy allows him to do it. He knows his beloved simply cannot rest until this ...ritual he has created for himself is done.

Because this time, it was _he_ who was injured, he who nearly lost his life...

Jim kisses him again, his hands warmly grasping his face, tears staining McCoy's own cheeks. "I'm so sorry, Bones. I should've never sent you on that mission."

"Hush, you. It was a medical emergency. I had to lead the away team," he says, smoothing Jim's brow with his lips. "You sent plenty of the security with us. It was just. . . ." His voice trails off as he remembers the flash of phaser-fire and sharp explosions and screams of dying. . . .

Jim shakes his head. "It was a set-up. There was no way to know that at the time. Nothing in the mission ops said anything about ongoing inter-cultural hostilities." Jim clings to him more closely. "I didn't have to send _you_. I--"

"Hush, Jim. Hush," McCoy soothes. "How many times have you sent me, and everything worked out? How many away missions have I led that were a complete success? More than we can count." McCoy kisses him again.

"But you got hurt, Bones," Jim mumbles into McCoy's chest.

"And I got better because of our goddamn brilliant medical team. Jim, stop this. Right now." McCoy sits up, more gingerly than he's used to. He has to close his eyes and take a deep breath to drive away the sudden dizziness.

"See? You're not fine," Jim says, releasing him and sitting up beside him. He gently pushes McCoy back into the wide reclining chair.

"I am. You have to believe me." McCoy takes Jim's hands in his. He looks at their rings, the wide silver bands they exchanged so many years ago. Both are scratched up at bit; Jim's has a ding in it that catches the sunlight. "I'm just fine."

After the dust-up with hostiles on Skagara, Jim set course for the nearest Federation holiday planet, one where his crew could rest. It had been months since they'd had any real down-time and Jim wasn't going to take no from the brass. He needed it just as much as anyone on the ship.

And McCoy needed to feel something akin to Earth's brilliant sun on face. He craved it; his body never responded well to the artificial sunlamp bays. So after being hurt and surviving the harrowing surgery that saved his life, he had requested that his captain schedule this shore leave. Usually he requested leave for the benefit of the crew. He could tell when the humans under his care were desperate to get off the ship: they started getting twitchy and the number of accidents and fights spiked. But he himself had never admitted that _he_ needed shore leave. Until this one.

Maybe it's because he's older. Maybe it's because his injuries were far more extensive than they'd ever been before. Maybe it's because he came close to buying the farm. Maybe it's because he saw the desperation and hurt and self-recrimination in Jim's eyes every single night since it happened. But they needed this.

And _this_ included a house on a beach on a small, deserted island, stocked with good food and drink, and a large comfortable bed. And privacy. Nothing but privacy. So his partner could cry for his crew members who'd lost their lives, engage in his 'ritual', and just be Jim. With him, and only him.

And naked. Jim has always been comfortable wearing nothing but a smile, but McCoy normally never walks around without something covering his body. But when they'd transported to the island and realized no one else was around, he shed his clothing easily and was currently enjoying basking outside, naked in the sunlight under a waving tree of some tropical species with his equally naked partner.

McCoy kisses Jim's wedding band. "Jim. Look at me. Please." He taps his index finger under Jim's chin. "Jim."

Jim finally looks up at him. His crystal blue eyes are reddened and tear-bright. "I am just fine," McCoy says firmly. "Now, I won't kid you. I'm still recovering. Hell, I'm fifty years old; it just takes more time for the old cells to knit back together. But it's happening. I may need a little more sleep than usual, but that will pass. Why, I feel stronger every day. And being here with you in this glorious sunlight with nothing to do except be _with you_ is the best medicine."

He watches as his words sink into Jim's thick skull. Jim swallows hard, gives a small shuddering exhalation, and then closes his eyes. "Okay, Bones. I get it. You're fine. You just need time."

"That's right."

Jim heaves another sigh. "Still, I need to—I need to do this."

McCoy lies back in the chair. "I know. Do what you need to do, Jim."

Jim rises up and straddles his hips, wriggling just a little on McCoy's pelvis. But there's no wickedly coy grin that accompanies it, and McCoy didn't expect one.

He leans over and licks the scar, now faint, on McCoy's clavicle. "Porthos III. I killed the bastard that gave this to you. Big knife." He slowly trails his tongue up the 15 centimeter long scar. "You bled so much." He licks it again. "It was 18 years ago."

McCoy stretches his neck to give Jim easy access. "Cardassian assassin squad. Phaser fire that could've killed you." He licks and nibbles at the smallish raised scar behind McCoy's left ear. "And I wasn't there to get my revenge," he whispers, "but I did, later. Commander was given up by one of his own men to me a month later. Bastards." McCoy moans as Jim laps at the scarring. "Sixteen years ago."

It's always the same. Jim, repeating the incident, the weapon, his response. The time that has passed since each scar was made, marking McCoy's body with evidence of his Starfleet _duty_ and, in Jim's mind, his captain's failure to protect him.

Jim kisses his forehead, just to the left of the part in his hair. "Nausicaan on Star Base 24. Bar fight."

McCoy huffs as he places his hands on Jim's waist. "Fuck but that was stupid."

"Shh," Jim says, licking the small scar that can barely be seen due to the intervention of a very talented plastic surgeon. "It was not. You were defending a lady's honor." He kisses it again. "My brave, brave Bones. That Nausicaan got quite the lesson in Starfleet loyalty. What, ten years ago, now."

He scoots down enough to lick the 37 centimeter long scar that begins at McCoy's stomach and runs up through his right breast. "Fucking Klingons." Jim licks it viciously. "Fucking, _goddamn_ Klingon. I fucking took his head off, Bones."

"I know, Jim. I know." McCoy rubs his hands up Jim's shaking arms.

"God, I thought--"

"And Christine was right there. While you were hacking the Klingon to bits with his own bat'leth, she was suturing me together. Saved my life."

Jim smiles at him. "She did. She was so brave. Won her a commendation." He licks a stripe up McCoy's chest again, and then follows with his finger. It circles McCoy's nipple, three times, making his cock twitch with the intensity of it. "Bones, it was just eight years ago."

"Yeah, Jim, it was." McCoy runs his hand through Jim's hair and behind his neck; he pulls him closer to kiss him hungrily. Jim tries to pull back, but McCoy won't let go. He keeps his lips sealed to Jim's, his tongue rolling insistently around his. When he finally releases Jim, they're both panting.

Jim backs up on his knees to the still-red scar on McCoy's lower abdomen. He prepares to lean over when McCoy stops him. "Wait..."

He leans over to the side table and from a basket of fruits he picks up a large pink, strawberry-like piece. "You really liked these at breakfast," McCoy says. He mashes it in his hand, the bright juice drips onto his abdomen. Then, he smears the pink pulp along his scar.

It's the scar he's left with from Skagara. Jim inhales sharply. "God_damn_ them, Bones." He licks the berry juice and bits from McCoy's body. "Goddamn Starfleet for not doing the reconnaissance." He licks another length, lapping the juice from his navel. It makes McCoy moan again.

But Jim doesn't smile. He licks up the berry leavings in quick, hard stabs. "Where was Chapel this time? She was taken hostage. Fuck!" He hangs his head and sobs once, unexpectedly.

McCoy raises up and takes Jim's head in his hands. "And she got away. She survived, Jim." He gathers Jim's heaving body to his, wrapping his arms about him. "Stop this. Don't do this to yourself."

"No." Jim pulls away. He continues licking, and crying and sniffling. "No. I have to make this right."

McCoy knows he can't stop this. The only thing he can do is prevent Jim from shattering into small pieces, completely losing himself in his guilt and self-blame. Hang on and carry forth.

Jim slides over and off the chair to kneel beside it, and considers the series of scars on his left thigh that circle nearly all the way around. "Dralax," he says a little less tearfully. "You slid down a hillside of razor-sharp rocks. Fucking Dralaxian patrol. There was no need to chase my away team."

As he licks, McCoy shudders. Of all the scars his body harbors this one is still the most sensitive. Maybe it's because the skin was very nearly shredded off. But as the tip of Jim's tongue darts out and touches each white striation on what's left of his dermis, the nerves fire hot lashes through him. He grips the arms of the chair as each caress shoots straight into his groin.

When Jim finishes, he looks up. "Three years since that happened, and you're still flinching." He very gently rubs the twining scars. "You have such beautiful legs, Bones."

McCoy is breathing heavily, knowing the final scars Jim will find and try to heal. He looks at Jim, his eyes hooded. "Still got it, huh, Jim?"

"Fuck, yes," Jim says fervently. And just that quickly the mood shifts in Jim's mind. McCoy can see it. He knows Jim will find the only scars that were not of his making, not done under his watch. And yet, Jim always ends with them because the represent the one scar that he _can_ heal.

Slowly, without breaking eye contact, Jim climbs back onto the chair. "Bones," he says softly. "I love you. So much."

McCoy reaches out to him. "I know. Love you, too."

Jim carefully lifts McCoy's cock. There, in the curves on each side of his scrotum are two tiny scars. Jim slowly lowers his head and gently licks each one. "Jocelyn Fucking Darnell. Twenty-four years ago." He licks the small scars again. "Bitch made you get a vasectomy." He sucks one testes into his hot mouth, and rolls it lovingly around his soft tongue. It slides out easily as he pulls the other one in, laving it with affection, too.

It is the scars that are not visible that hurt the most. Of all the wounds he has sustained, the deep scar across his heart, created by a woman who rejected his love, was the one that desperately _needed_ to be healed. And Jim was the only one who could see it, and knew how to heal it. His fierce devotion and uncompromising love made McCoy believe again--in himself, in love, in life. Without Jim, he would have remained the bitter shell of a man he once was.

As Jim gently sucks, McCoy gasps in delight. "Yeah, well," he manages to say, "not like I needed the sperm after you happened."

Jim tongues the testes out of his mouth where it rests heavily against McCoy's thigh. "Still, could've had more babies." He blows on it and watches as the sensitive skin contracts.

McCoy shivers and grins at him. "I got you instead."

Jim looks up, gobsmacked, then laughs. "We would've had pretty ones, though."

"Biology doesn't work that way, you moron." McCoy sits up and runs his fingers through Jim's hair lovingly. "Don't need anyone or anything else in my life but you."

Jim's smile fades from mirth to wonderment. "Me either. It's always been you, Bones."

With that Jim looks down again and swallows the length McCoy's dick. He's aggressive, pulling on it with such force it hollows his cheeks. Several times more, and McCoy is panting, and on the verge.

"Jim—god!"

McCoy is barely prepared for the bruising kiss when it comes as Jim releases his erection and then swiftly moves upward and into his arms, pressing his body fully to his. The chair, with a loud crack, falls back into a total layout. "Oops," Jim says, startled.

McCoy looks startled as well, but then relaxes into a grin. "Well, that's convenient," he drawls.

Jim splutters, then laughs, and joyfully plunders McCoy's mouth again with a smile still dancing on his lips. Very quickly, his laughter gives way to passion, and to moans of pleasure.

He reaches between them and aligns their cocks together, pulling tightly on them, just the way they like it. McCoy moans again, and breaks the kiss, panting, "Please. Jim, please."

"What do you want, Bones?" Jim asks as he plants small nips along his jawline.

"You, want you. Now."

Jim watches Bones carefully—the gold and hazel eyes are blown black; his face is flushed with arousal and anticipation. "It's been so long," McCoy says. "So long since we've had real sex."

Jim kisses him slowly again. "Just—didn't want to push you. You were so tender to the touch until even a few days ago."

McCoy wraps his arms around him tightly. "And now I'm fine. I'm ready." He reaches up and kisses Jim passionately. "Want you. So bad."

Jim scowls just a little. "I don't want to rush. I can wait--"

"Dammit, Jim. I'm not a delicate flower," McCoy says, annoyance coloring his desire. "If I say I'm ready, I'm ready."

Jim presses his fingers to McCoy's mouth. "Damn, Bones. All right. Hang on." He leans over the side to find his jeans and searches for the lube. "Okay, we're going slow, and you tell me if you--"

"Get on with it!" McCoy's annoyance bubbles over. He spreads his legs, encouraging Jim in between them, and lifts his knees to his waist.

Jim, nervous for his partner's well-being, fumbles with the lube. "God, Bones, if you let me hurt you--"

Instead of answering, McCoy cups the back of Jim's neck and pulls him in for a kiss. As he does, he presses his knees to either side of Jim's chest—hard. Jim struggles for a moment. "Okay!" he gasps.

Watching McCoy's stormy face, Jim finds his entrance and circles it with a well-slicked finger. He slides it in and instantly, McCoy relaxes. "That's it, Jim," he breathes.

Slowly, Jim works another, then another finger in, pausing to add more lubricant and carefully works the muscle open. He loves seeing McCoy's face express different emotions: love, passion, arousal, bliss. It's something he's always loved about his Bones, the wordless communication that passes so easily, so clearly between them. They're both extremely verbal men in their professional capacities; but when they are together, it's their expressions and wordlessness that conveys their deepest feelings.

McCoy draws Jim's face to his and kisses him so intensely. Jim removes his fingers and, slicking his cock, he raises up on his knees. McCoy raises an eyebrow, and Jim gives him a smile. _Ready? Oh yeah, ready_ they say.

Jim pushes into his body, slowly, watching for any sign of discomfort. All he sees is passion, love, encouragement. With a smile, he slides in until he is fully seated. "God, Jim. So good," McCoy breathes, his hands skimming across Jim's face, neck, chest and shoulders. Jim starts to pulse in and out, slowly, shallowly at first, then picks up the pace. "Yes, that's it," McCoy says, his hands everywhere they can touch. "Faster," he breathes.

Jim starts to breathe hard. "Been a while," he gasps. "Oh, god. Bones!"

McCoy takes his dick in hand and pumps. "Come on," he says, his voice rough with passion. "Come on, Jim."

The desperate need in McCoy's voice inspires him, the look of bliss on his face spurs him on. He dips his head and his lips latch on to the Cardassian-inflicted scar under McCoy's ear. Jim knows McCoy cannot resist, and several seconds later, he's coming with staccato breaths and short gasps. It is the most arousing, the most _life-affirming_ sound; the warm splash of come between them serves to spur Jim to push in hard, once, three times and then he's _comingcomingcoming._ His orgasm washes through him like a refining fire, it's been so long—so long since he's connected with his beloved like this. He feels cleansed, renewed--reborn in his Bones's arms.

Jim shifts to the right, enough to take the weight off of McCoy's body. "You okay?" he breathes.

"'Course I am," McCoy says gruffly. "That was—that was the best thing ever."

Jim raises up on an elbow. "Just what the doctor ordered?"

The sunlight dances through the trees and lights up Jim's blue eyes. Warmth has replaced sadness; love has replaced guilt. McCoy smiles, and kisses him. "And just what the captain needed."


End file.
